Chapter 6

Why Is Such a Man Alive?

DMITRI FYODOROVITCH, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and agreeable
countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and showed
signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something not
healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and
there was an unhealthy sallowness in their colour. His rather large,
prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet
there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking
irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something
else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. "It's hard
to tell what he's thinking," those who talked to him sometimes declared.
People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled
by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light-hearted
thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained
look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Everyone knew,
or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he
had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he
had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories
current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, "of
an unstable and unbalanced mind," as our justice of the peace, Katchalnikov,
happily described him.

He was stylishly
and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock-coat. He wore
black gloves and carried a top hat. Having only lately left the army,
he still had moustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped
short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long, determined
stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold,
and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing
him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his blessing.
Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed his hand
respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said:

"Be so generous
as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but Smerdyakov,
the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told me twice
over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn- "

"Don't disturb
yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are a little
late. It's of no consequence.... "

"I'm extremely
obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness."

Saying this,
Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his father, made
him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered
it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking it his
duty to show his respect and good intentions.

Although Fyodor
Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the occasion. In response
to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made his son a bow as
low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave
him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed generally to all present,
and without a word walked to the window with his long, resolute stride,
sat down on the only empty chair, near Father Paissy, and, bending forward,
prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted.

Dmitri's entrance
had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed.
But this time Miusov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paissy's
persistent and almost irritable question.

"Allow me
to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain well-bred
nonchalance. "It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan Fyodorovitch
is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that
also. Ask him."

"Nothing
special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once. "European
Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix up the
final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild notion
is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals and
dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases,
it appears, the police- the foreign police, of course- do the same. Your
Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch."

"I ask your
permission to drop this subject altogether," Miusov repeated. "I
will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic
anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering
here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in argument that there
was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbours. That
there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that, if
there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural
law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch
added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and
that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not
only love but every living force maintaining the life of the world would
at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything
would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting
that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God
or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into
the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even
to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognised as the inevitable,
the most rational, even honourable outcome of his position. From this
paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical
friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories."

"Excuse
me," Dmitri cried suddenly; "if I've heard aright, crime must
not only be permitted but even recognised as the inevitable and the most
rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?"

"Quite so," said
Father Paissy.

"I'll remember
it."

Having uttered
these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Everyone
looked at him with curiosity.

"Is that
really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of
the faith in immortality?" the elder asked Ivan suddenly.

"Yes. That
was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality."

"You are
blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy."

"Why unhappy?" Ivan
asked smiling.

"Because,
in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your
soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on Church
Jurisdiction."

"Perhaps
you are right!... But I wasn't altogether joking," Ivan suddenly
and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.

"You were
not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still fretting your
heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself
with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile,
in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with magazine articles, and
discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments,
and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly.... That question you
have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it clamours for an
answer."

"But can
it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?" Ivan went on
asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable
smile.

"If it can't
be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative.
You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering
is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable
of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling
is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on
earth, and may God bless your path."

The elder raised
his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Ivan from where
he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received
his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence.
His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation,
which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed everyone by its strangeness
and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there
was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's face. But Miusov suddenly
shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped
up from his seat.

"Most pious
and holy elder," he cried pointing to Ivan, "that is my son,
flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl
Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against
whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor- they
are both out of Schiller's Robbers, and so I am the reigning Count von
Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!"

"Speak without
buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family," answered
the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more
and more fatigued, and his strength was failing.

"An unseemly
farce which I foresaw when I came here!" cried Dmitri indignantly.
He too leapt up. "Forgive it, reverend Father," he added, addressing
the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how
to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been
too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal.
Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But I believe
I know why- "

"They all
blame me, all of them!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn. "Pyotr
Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr Alexandrovitch,
you have!" he turned suddenly to Miusov, although the latter was
not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accuse me of having
hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't
there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,
from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you
had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr
Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him.
Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt
to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary
proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he
was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the
seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,
in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you believe it, holy
Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honourable of young ladies
of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his
superior officer, who had received many honours and had the Anna Order
on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now
she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very
eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although
this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable
man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress
for everybody, just like a legal wife- for she is virtuous, yes, holy
Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to open this fortress
with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to
get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress
already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose. From whom
do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?"

"Be silent!" cried
Dmitri, "wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to asperse
the good name of an honourable girl! That you should utter a word about
her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!" He was breathless.

He was breathless. "Mitya!
Mitya!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a tear. "And
is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then?"

"Shameless
hypocrite! "exclaimed Dmitri furiously.

"He says
that to his father! his father What would he be with others? Gentlemen,
only fancy; there's a poor but honourable man living here, burdened with
a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged
from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on
his honour. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in a
tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all
because he is an agent in a little business of mine."

"It's all
a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dmitri was
trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I
confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret
it now, and I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain,
this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress,
and suggested to her from you, that she should take I.O.U.s of mine which
were in your possession, and should sue me for the money so as to get
me into prison by means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account
from you of my property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for
that lady when you yourself incited her to captivate me! She told me
so to my face.... She told me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted
to put me in prison because you are jealous of me with her, because you'd
begun to force your attentions upon her; and I know all about that, too;
she laughed at you for that as well- you hear- she laughed at you as
she described it. So here you have this man, this father who reproaches
his profligate son! Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this
crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had
come to forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask
forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but
an honourable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare
not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game,
though he is my father...."

He could not
go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with difficulty. But
everyone in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zossima got up from
their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but waited for guidance
from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement but from the
weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face; from time
to time he raised his hand, as though to check the storm, and, of course,
a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene; but he seemed
to be waiting for something and watched them intently as though trying
to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last Miusov
felt completely humiliated and disgraced.

"We are
all to blame for this scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But
I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal.
This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise
knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling
to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous
of his son's relation with a woman of loose behaviour and intrigues with
the creature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which
I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all
that I was as much deceived as anyone."

"Dmitri
Fyodorovitch," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural
voice, "if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant
to a duel... with pistols, at three paces... across a handkerchief," he
ended, stamping with both feet.

With old liars
who have been acting all their lives there are moments when they enter
so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion
in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later, they are
able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you shameless
old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath."

Dmitri frowned
painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his father.

"I thought...
I thought," he said. in a soft and, as it were, controlled voice, "that
I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart, my betrothed,
to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved profligate,
a despicable clown!"

"A duel!" yelled
the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. "And
you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov, let me tell you that there has never
been in all your family a loftier, and more honest- you hear- more honest
woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call her! And you, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that 'creature,' so you
must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle
to her. That's the woman called a "creature"

"Shameful!" broke
from Father Iosif.

"Shameful
and disgraceful!" Kalganov, flushing crimson cried in a boyish voice,
trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment.

"Why is
such a man alive?" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in
a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. "Tell
me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round
at everyone and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately.

"Listen,
listen, monks, to the parricide!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, rushing
up to Father Iosif. "That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What
is shameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behaviour' is perhaps
holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation!
She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved
much, and Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.'"

"It was
not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the
gentle Father Iosif.

"Yes, it
was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating cabbage,
and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you think
you bribe God with gudgeon."

"This is
unendurable!" was heard on all sides in the cell.

But this unseemly
scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Zossima Father Zossima
rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for the elder
and everyone else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the
arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank on his
knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but
this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at
Dmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so astounded
that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint
smile on his lips.

"Good-bye!
Forgive me, all of you" he said, bowing on all sides to his guests.

Dmitri stood
for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him- what did it mean?
Suddenly he cried aloud, "Oh God!" hid his face in his hands,
and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in
their confusion not saying good-bye, or bowing to their host. Only the
monks went up to him again for a blessing.

"What did
it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what?" said
Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation
without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were all passing
out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.

"I can't
answer for a madhouse and for madmen," Miusov answered at once ill-humouredly, "but
I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for
ever. Where's that monk?"

"That monk," that
is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the Superior, did not
keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from
the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time.

"Reverend
Father, kindly do me a favour. Convey my deepest respect to the Father
Superior, apologise for me, personally, Miusov, to his reverence, telling
him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I am
unable to have the honour of being present at his table, greatly I should
desire to do so," Miusov said irritably to the monk.

"And that
unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor Pavlovitch
cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father; this gentleman doesn't
want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you shall
go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good appetite
to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at home, I
don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable relative."

"I am not
your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!"

"I said
it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the relationship,
though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove
it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like. I'll send
the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the Father
Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologise for the disturbance we've
been making...."

"Is it true
that you are going home? Aren't you lying?"

"Pyotr Alexandrovitch!
How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me, gentlemen, I was
carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am ashamed. Gentlemen,
one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of
the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed!
After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to gobble up the monastery's
sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse me!"

"The devil
only knows, what if he deceives us?" thought Miusov, still hesitating,
and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter
turned round, and noticing that Miusov was watching him, waved him a
kiss.

"Well, are
you coming to the Superior?" Miusov asked Ivan abruptly.

"Why not?
I was especially invited yesterday."

"Unfortunately
I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner," said Miusov
with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was
listening. "We ought, at least, to apologise for the disturbance,
and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?"

"Yes, we
must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be there," observed
Ivan.

"Well, I
should hope not! Confound this dinner!"

They all walked
on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road through the copse
he made one observation however- that the Father Superior had been waiting
a long time, and that they were more than half an hour late. He received
no answer. Miusov looked with hatred at Ivan.

"Here he
is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened," he thought. "A
brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!"

Chapter 7

A Young Man Bent on a Career

ALYOSHA helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little
room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstead,
with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under the ikons,
was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel lying on it. The elder
sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard. He
looked intently at Alyosha, as though considering something.

"Go, my
dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed there,
go and wait at the Father Superior's table."

"Let me
stay here," Alyosha entreated.

"You are
more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and be of
service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember, my son"-
the elder liked to call him that- "this is not the place for you
in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery.
Go away for good."

Alyosha started.

"What is
it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service
in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will have to take
a wife, too. You will have to bear all before you come back. There will
be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you forth. Christ
is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not abandon you. You will
see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last
message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly. Remember
my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my days
but my hours are numbered."

Alyosha's face
again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth quivered.

"What is
it again?" Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. "The worldly
may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who
is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go,
and make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near
both."

Father Zossima
raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no protest, though he
had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover, to ask the significance
of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on the tip of his tongue, but
he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have explained it unasked
if he had thought fit. But evidently it was not his will. That action
had made a terrible impression on Alyosha; he believed blindly in its
mysterious significance. Mysterious, and perhaps awful.

As he hastened
out of the hermatage precincts to reach the monastery in time to serve
at the Father Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at his heart,
and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima's words, foretelling
his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly must infallibly
come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how could he go?
He had told him not to weep, and to leave the monastery. Good God! It
was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He hurried through the
copse that divided the monastery from the hermitage, and unable to bear
the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient pines beside the
path. He had not far to go- about five hundred paces. He expected to
meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he noticed
Rakitin. He was waiting for someone.

"Are you
waiting for me?" asked Alyosha, overtaking him.

"Yes," grinned
Rakitin. "You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know; he has
a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior entertained
the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I shan't be there, but
you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexey, what does that
vision mean? That's what I want to ask you."

"What vision?"

"That bowing
to your brother, Dmitri. And didn't he tap the ground with his forehead,
too!"

"You speak
of Father Zossima?"

"Yes, of
Father Zossima,"

"Tapped
the ground?"

"Ah, an
irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision
mean?"

"I don't
know what it means, Misha."

"I knew
he wouldn't explain it to you There's nothing wonderful about it, of
course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the performance.
All the pious people in the town will talk about it and spread the story
through the province, wondering what it meant. To my thinking the old
man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime. Your house stinks of
it."

Rakitin evidently
had something he was eager to speak of.

"It'll be
in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your rich old father.
So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something
happens later on, it'll be: 'Ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesied
it!' though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that. 'Ah, but
it was symbolic,' they'll say, 'an allegory,' and the devil knows what
all! It'll be remembered to his glory: 'He predicted the crime and marked
the criminal!' That's always the way with these crazy fanatics; they
cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like your
elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a murderer."

"What crime?
What do you mean?"

Alyosha stopped
dead. Rakitin stopped, too.

"What murderer?
As though you didn't know! I'll bet you've thought of it before. That's
interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always speak the truth,
though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not?
Answer."

"I have," answered
Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken aback.

"What? Have
you really?" he cried.

"I... I've
not exactly thought it," muttered Alyosha, "but directly you
began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself."

"You see?
(And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and your brother
Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I'm not mistaken?"

"But wait,
wait a minute," Alyosha broke in uneasily, "What has led you
to see all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question."

"Two questions,
disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately. What led me
to see it? I shouldn't have seen it, if I hadn't suddenly understood
your brother Dmitri, seen right into the very heart of him all at once.
I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but passionate
people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd run at
your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned old
sinner, who can never draw the line- if they both themselves go, they'll
both come to grief."

"But why
are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our Mitya (he is
stupid, but honest), but he's- a sensualist. That's the very definition
and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on his low
sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you can
have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know! In your family
sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these three sensualists
are watching one another, with their knives in their belts. The three
of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the fourth."

"You are
mistaken about that woman. Dmitri despises her," said Alyosha, with
a sort of shudder.

"Grushenka?
No, brother, he doesn't despise her. Since he has openly abandoned his
betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something here, my
dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with
some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body
(a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children
for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If
he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful,
he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their feet
in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at
their feet without a thrill- and it's not only their feet. Contempt's
no help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does, but
he can't tear himself away."

"I understand
that," Alyosha jerked out suddenly.

"Really?
Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at the first
word," said Rakitin, malignantly. "That escaped you unawares,
and the confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject; you've
thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you virgin soul!
You're a quiet one, Alyosha, you're a saint, I know, but the devil only
knows what you've thought about, and what you know already! You are pure,
but you've been down into the depths.... I've been watching you a long
time. You're a Karamazov yourself; you're a thorough Karamazov- no doubt
birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist
from your father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble?
Is it true, then? Do you know, Grushenka has been begging me to bring
you along. 'I'll pull off his cassock,' she says. You can't think how
she keeps begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest
in you. Do you know, she's an extraordinary woman, too!"

"Thank her
and say I'm not coming," said Alyosha, with a strained smile. "Finish
what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you. my idea after."

"There's
nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune, brother. If
even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother, Ivan? He's
a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is that you're
all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan writes theological
articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own, though
he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself- that's your brother
Ivan. He's trying to get Mitya's betrothed for himself, and I fancy he'll
succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Mitya's consent. For Mitya will
surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her, and escape to Grushenka.
And he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and disinterestedness.
Observe that. Those are the most fatal people! Who the devil can make
you out? He recognises his vileness and goes on with it! Let me tell
you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Mitya's way now. He
has suddenly gone crazy over Grushenka. His mouth waters at the sight
of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell just
now, simply because Miusov called her an 'abandoned creature.' He's worse
than a tom-cat in love. At first she was only employed by him in connection
with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he has suddenly
realised all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her
with his offers, not honourable ones, of course. And they'll come into
collision, the precious father and son, on that path! But Grushenka favours
neither of them, she's still playing with them, and teasing them both,
considering which she can get most out of. For though she could filch
a lot of money from the papa he wouldn't marry her, and maybe he'll turn
stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That's where Mitya's value
comes in; he has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes, ready to
marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina Ivanovna,
who's rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushenka, who
has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant, Samsonov, a coarse,
uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may well come to
pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is waiting for.
It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off Katerina Ivanovna,
for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty thousand. That's
very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence and a beggar.
And, take note, he won't be wronging Mitya, but doing him the greatest
service. For I know as a fact that Mitya only last week, when he was
with some Gipsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud that he was
unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that his brother Ivan, he was the
man who deserved her. And Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end refuse
such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them
already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him?
He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense."

"How do
you know? How can you speak so confidently?" Alyosha asked sharply,
frowning.

"Why do
you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm
speaking the truth."

"You don't
like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money."

"Really?
And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money, though
a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction."

"Ivan is
above that. He wouldn't make up to anyone for thousands. It is not money,
it's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking."

"What wild
dream now? Oh, you- aristocrats!"

"Ah, Misha,
he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great,
unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions, but an answer
to their questions."

"That's
plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has
set you a problem!" cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice. His
face changed, and his lips twitched. "And the problem's a stupid
one. It is no good guessing it. Rack your brains- you'll understand it.
His article is absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory
just now: if there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue,
and everything is lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how your brother
Mitya cried out: 'I will remember!') An attractive theory for scoundrels!-
(I'm being abusive, that's stupid.) Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic
poseurs, 'haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.' He's showing off, and
what it all comes to is, 'on the one hand we cannot but admit' and 'on
the other it must be confessed!' His whole theory is a fraud! Humanity
will find in itself the power to live for virtue even without believing
in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for
fraternity."

Rakitin could
hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as though remembering
something, he stopped short.

"Well, that's
enough," he said, with a still more crooked smile. "Why are
you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?"

"No, I never
dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but... never mind,
I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot about it, Misha.
I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katerina Ivanovna
yourself; I've suspected that for a long time, brother, that's why you
don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?"

"And jealous
of her money, too? Won't you add that?"

"I'll say
nothing about money. I am not going to insult you."

"I believe
it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother Ivan with you.
Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from
Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him? He condescends
to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?"

"I never
heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't speak
of you at all."

"But I heard
that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna's he was abusing me
for all he was worth- you see what an interest he takes in your humble
servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say.
He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for the
career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a
monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine
as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in the
end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal
and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism,
but keeping a sharp lookout all the time, that is, keeping in with both
sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's account,
the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the proceeds and
investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my
career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices
to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the
place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say
is to be built in Petersburg."

"Ah, Misha,
that's just what will really happen, every word of it," cried Alyosha,
unable to restrain a good-humoured smile.

"You are
pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch."

"No, no,
I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my mind. But,
excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been at Katerina
Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you?"

"I wasn't
there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with my own
ears; if you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally,
of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka's bedroom and I couldn't go
away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room."

"Oh yes,
I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours."

"A relation!
That Grushenka a relation of mine!" cried Rakitin, turning crimson. "Are
you mad? You're out of your mind!"

"Why, isn't
she a relation of yours? I heard so."

"Where can
you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient, noble family,
though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's
tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favour. I may be only
a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don't
insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honour, too, Alexey
Fyodorovitch, I couldn't be a relation of Grushenka, a common harlot.
I beg you to understand that!"

Rakitin was intensely
irritated.

"Forgive
me, for goodness' sake, I had no idea... besides... how can you call
her a harlot? Is she... that sort of woman?" Alyosha flushed suddenly. "I
tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go
to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I never dreamed
that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she really deserve
it?"

"I may have
reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business. But as
for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely to
make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the kitchen.
Hullo! what's wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can't have finished
dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No doubt
they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him. They've
broken out from the Father Superior's. And look, Father Isidor's shouting
out something after them from the steps. And your father's shouting and
waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah, and there goes Miusov driving
away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old Maximov running!-
there must have been a row. There can't have been any dinner. Surely
they've not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they, perhaps,
been beaten? It would serve them right!"

There was reason
for Rakitin's exclamations. There had been a scandalous, an unprecedented
scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment.

Chapter 8

The Scandalous Scene

MIUSOV, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms,
when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed of having
lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable
wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him in Father
Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks were
not to blame, in any case," he reflected, on the steps. "And
if they're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand,
is a nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue,
I'll fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and... and...
show them that I've nothing to do with that Aesop, that buffoon, that
Pierrot, and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they
have."

He determined
to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims
to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more ready
to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he had
indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were.

These excellent
intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father Superior's dining-room,
though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining-room, for the Father Superior
had only two rooms altogether; they were, however, much larger and more
comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there was no great luxury about
the furnishing of these rooms either. The furniture was of mahogany,
covered with leather, in the old-fashioned style of 1820 the floor was
not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there
were many choice flowers in the windows; the most sumptuous thing in
the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table.
The cloth was clean, the service shone; there were three kinds of well-baked
bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass
jug of kvas- both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the
neighbourhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin related afterwards that there
were five dishes: fish-soup made of sterlets, served with little fish
patties; then boiled fish served in a special way; then salmon cutlets,
ice pudding and compote, and finally, blanc-mange. Rakitin found out
about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the
kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere,
and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious
temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously
exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent
part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was distressed
to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonourable, and quite unconscious
of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that because he would
not steal money left on the table he was a man of the highest integrity.
Neither Alyosha nor anyone else could have influenced him in that.

Rakitin, of course,
was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to
which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk were the only inmates
of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Miusov, Kalganov,
and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting
also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive
his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black
hair streaked with grey, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to
his guests in silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing.
Miusov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father Superior drew it back
in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony
in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants
do.

"We must
apologise most humbly, your reverence," began Miusov, simpering
affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. "Pardon
us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch.
He felt obliged to decline the honour of your hospitality, and not without
reason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by
the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite
out of keeping... in fact, quite unseemly... as"- he glanced at
the monks- "your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore,
recognising that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame,
and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his apologies
and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends later. He
asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place."

As he uttered
the last word of his tirade, Miusov completely recovered his self-complacency,
and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He fully and sincerely
loved humanity again.

The Father Superior
listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend of the head, replied:

"I sincerely
deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have learnt to like
us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen."

He stood before
the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent their heads reverently,
and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with peculiar fervour.

It was at this
moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It must be noted
that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the impossibility
of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing had happened,
after his disgraceful behaviour in the elder's cell. Not that he was
so very much ashamed of himself- quite the contrary perhaps. But still
he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking carriage
had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had hardly
got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own words
at the elder's: "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower
than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play
the buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I." He
longed to revenge himself on everyone for his own unseemliness. He suddenly
recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate
so and so, so much?" And he had answered them, with his shameless
impudence, "I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played
him a dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him."

Remembering that
now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a moment. His
eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered.

"Well, since
I have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant
sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well,
there is no rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I
am worth. I will show them I don't care what they think- that's all!"

He told the coachman
to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the monastery and straight
to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what he would do, but
he knew that he could not control himself, and that a touch might drive
him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to obscenity, to nothing
criminal, nothing for which he could be legally punished. In the last
resort, he could always restrain himself, and had marvelled indeed at
himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the Father Superior's
dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and all were moving
to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the company, and laughing
his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in
the face. "They thought I had gone, and here I am again," he
cried to the whole room.

For one moment
everyone stared at him without a word; and at once everyone felt that
something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was about to happen.
Miusov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame of mind to the
most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died down in his
heart revived instantly.

The blood rushed
to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond thinking of style,
and he seized his hat.

"What is
it he cannot?" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "that he absolutely
cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not?
Will you receive me as your guest?"

"You are
welcome with all my heart," answered the Superior. "Gentlemen!" he
added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your dissensions,
and to be united in love and family harmony- with prayer to the Lord
at our humble table."

"No, no,
it is impossible!" cried Miusov, beside himself.

"Well, if
it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for me, and
I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr Alexandrovitch
everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I will go
away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said
about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my relation.
That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you, von Sohn?"

"Do you
mean me?" muttered Maximov, puzzled.

"Of course
I mean you," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Who else? The Father
Superior could not be von Sohn."

"But I am
not von Sohn either. I am Maximov."

"No, you
are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It was a
famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry- I believe that
is what such places are called among you- he was killed and robbed, and
in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from
Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing
him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the
piano. So this is that very von Solin. He has risen from the dead, hasn't
he, von Sohn?"

"What is
happening? What's this?" voices were heard in the group of monks.

"Let us
go," cried Miusov, addressing Kalganov.

"No, excuse
me," Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step into
the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for
behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch. Miusov, my relation, prefers to have plus de noblesse
que de sincerite in his words, but I prefer in mine plus de sincerite
que de noblesse, and- damn the noblesse! That's right, isn't it, von
Sohn? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon,
yet I am the soul of honour, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the
soul of honour, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity
and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind.
My son, Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his
welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool,
I have been listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to
give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with
us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must
lie for ever. Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I
am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which
I am ready to bow down reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel
down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained
by the holy Fathers to confess in secret: then only your confession will
be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before
everyone that I did this and that... well, you understand what- sometimes
it would not be proper to talk about it- so it is really a scandal! No,
Fathers, one might be carried along with you to the Flagellants, I dare
say.... at the first opportunity I shall write to the Synod, and I shall
take my son, Alexey, home."

We must note
here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak spot. There
had been at one time malicious rumours which had even reached the Archbishop
(not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the institution
of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the elders, even
to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the elders abused
the sacrament of confession and so on and so on- absurd charges which
had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of folly, which
had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch and was bearing him on the current of
his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy, prompted him
with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a word of
it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no one
had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he
could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from confused
memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish tirade,
he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to prove
to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been talking
nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word he would
be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself, and
plunged forward blindly.

"How disgraceful!" cried
Pyotr Alexandrovitch.

"Pardon
me!" said the Father Superior. "It was said of old, 'Many have
begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And
hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and
He has sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honoured
guest!" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.

"Tut- tut-
tut- sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old gestures.
The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A kiss
on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's Robbers. I don't
like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to be
found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why
do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward
like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being virtuous
in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in a monastery
at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up aloft for
it- you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father Superior.
What have they got here?" He went up to the table. "Old port
wine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is
something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought
out, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the
labourer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing
it from his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know,
holy Fathers."

"This is
too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif.

Father Paissy
kept obstinately silent. Miusov rushed from the room, and Kalgonov after
him.

"Well, Father,
I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see you again.
You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a thousand roubles,
so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No, I'll say no more.
I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the humiliation I endured." He
thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm of simulated feeling. "This
monastery has played a great part in my life! It has cost me many bitter
tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one, against me. You cursed
me with bell and book, you spread stories about me all over the place.
Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the age of steamers and
railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles, no, nor a hundred
farthings will you get out of me!"

It must be noted
again that our monastery never had played any great part in his life,
and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was so carried
away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment almost believing
it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But at that very
instant, he felt that it was time to draw back.

The Father Superior
bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke impressively:

"It is written
again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonour that cometh upon thee
by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who hath dishonoured
thee.' And so will we."

"Tut, tut,
tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink yourselves
Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from here for
ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most dutiful son,
permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you to stay
for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only one
short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and kasha.
We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've cloudberry
wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance." He went out, shouting
and gesticulating.

It was at that
moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.

"Alexey!" his
father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. "You come home
to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave
no trace behind."

Alyosha stood
rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile, Fyodor
Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about to follow him
in grim silence without even turning to say good-bye to Alyosha. But
at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery
gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by
the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late.
Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his
impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot was
still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. "I
am going with you! " he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful
laugh with a look of reckless glee in his face. "Take me, too."

"There!" cried
Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. "Did I not say he was von Sohn. It
is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself
away? What did you von Sohn there? And how could you get away from the
dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but I am
surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It will
be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, von
Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von
Sohn!"

But Ivan, who
had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a violent punch
in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not
fall.

"Drive on!" Ivan
shouted angrily to the coachman.

"Why, what
are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?" Fyodor
Pavlovitch protested.

But the carriage
had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.

"Well, you
are a fellow," Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.

After a pause
of two minutes, looking askance at his son, "Why, it was you got
up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why
are you angry now?"